A Scene from the Uprising

13 July. Champs Elysée. The hottest of the heat of the Parisian summer. A lone mesomorphic mime in tights is shirtless. His audience, growing, no longer fits on the sidewalks. The asphalt must abide their spillover. Turn lanes are obstructed by newsmen. By 14:45, the avenue is closed to motor traffic.

The tattoo between the mime's nipples reads, "15:00, 13 July." His white ski mask--crocheted thick with black yarn around the eyes and thicker red yarn around the mouth--is yellowed with days-old sweat. Since 6 July, he has been standing on the curb across the street from the 3-story Häagen-Dazs megaplex; a feat that has earned him the front page of Le Monde, numerous spots on Channel 1 News, and entry in next year's Guinness Book of Records. The TV calls him "the masked man." The papers claim the tattoo is a promise. The audience counts down the minutes.

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At 14:56, he extends his right arm and points its index finger at the 4-umbrella Häagen-Dazs balcony. Scores swarm the railing. A big-eyed, charismatic toddler atop her father's shoulders is the first to catch on: she points back at the mime with her own index finger. Within moments, the other toddlers on the balcony, however smaller-eyed and less charismatic than the first, do the same.

Does the masked man wink at the children?

The masked man, yes, seems to have winked at the children.

Thousands applaud at street level.

By 14:59, all right index fingers on the Häagen-Dazs balcony are extended. Hundreds of fingers.

At 15:00, the masked man starts the show: He puts his right foot into the street before him, and takes his right foot out. Then he puts his right foot into the street before him, and shakes his right foot about.

Those on the balcony mirror his movements as best they can, given the crowded conditions. Those on the street mirror those on the balcony.

The masked man puts his left foot into the street before him, and takes his left foot out. Then he puts his left foot into the street before him, and shakes his left foot about. Wiggling his shoulders, he turns himself around. The street--and balcony--crowds follow his lead and, after a pause, the masked man jumps in place three times.

Seconds later, the balcony of the Häagen-Dazs collapses.

Seventy-five are dead on impact.

As the lives of hundreds more expire, the masked man points at the carnage-strewn rubble, tips his ear at the screams emanating from it. He palms his cheeks as if to say "Oh my!" but he does not say "Oh my!" For mimes are not permitted to speak.

He kneels in the street and reaches behind his head.

Thousands are screaming.

Someone applauds.

The hundreds applaud. And then hundreds from the screaming thousands attack scores of the applauding hundreds.

As the scores fend off blows, the applause grows louder.

Most of the rest of the screaming thousands converge on the mime, but the ones nearest him, on seeing that he unlaces the mask--they plant their feet and shout: "Wait!!! He takes off the mask!"

There is no lacing on the back of his ski-mask, but the masked man mimes a struggle to unlace, and it is obvious to those who can see him that the lacing on the back of his ski-mask is complicated, knot-plagued, that the ski-mask will take minutes to take off. Those who can't see grow nervous, however. They grow distrustful. Maybe the man will be rescued by helicopter. Maybe he's being smuggled away to safety even as they leap to see and fail to see over the heads of those in front of them. Someone shouts, "Kill him!" Someone shouts, "Now!" Someone shouts, "Let's roll!" And at that, they do.